


Fool in the Rain

by khasael



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Comfort/Angst, M/M, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:21:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn't true; the other is to refuse to believe what is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Led Zeppelin song. This just kind of hit me out of nowhere.

It's a cold night, the chill in the air all the more bitter for the damp, and even through all the drink, Grantaire can feel the bite of it.

He sits just inside the alley, hidden from the rain by a small measure, and shivers. It's miserable, yes, and if there were anyone around to hear him, he'd release some of the worst of it in diatribe against any number of things, as they met his fancy. There's comfort in expelling some poisons, whether verbally or by other means, but Grantaire has no real option for either at the moment.

He is, while tipsy, not nearly as drunk as one might expect. And that one, of course, is none other than the form of Enjolras, he who is the existence of marble made flesh, blood and heat and bone and fire, but just as unyielding as unmarred stone.

It's Enjolras to blame for much of tonight's misery, though Grantaire cannot hate him for it. He hates himself, rather, for being unable to stop himself for pushing so far, for the sole reason of wanting a reaction. It's the only attention he can hope to get, and he often takes it too far, like a child pushing his father until he's noticed only to receive punishment. Grantaire is, to be honest, the real reason for his own misery, and Enjolras is simply the one to mete it out, to funnel the response into an action, so that Grantaire can see just how much he is to be disdained.

There are footsteps nearby, deliberate and sure, like the man carried along by them does not notice the rain, or care to acknowledge it, being driven by a force more powerful than something so trifling as the weather. Grantaire pulls himself further against the stone wall, so as to remain hidden from the stranger who has an important purpose this time of night, in this weather. He's incurred enough annoyance and disgust tonight; he doesn't need to add more.

"Sitting out in the rain, as if homeless," comes a voice from above him. "A fool in so many habits and actions."

Grantaire pulls his coat tighter against his shoulders and does not look up. Enjolras usually only tolerates him, and sometimes not even that. Now he's moved on to insulting Grantaire even when he's not hanging around the space Enjolras occupies. "I'm a fool in habit, action, and desire," he mutters to his knees. "But so are we all."

There's a pause, as if Enjolras is considering whether to respond, or simply walk away. Grantaire fully expects the latter. What he does not expect is the hand to land on his shoulder, to squeeze it firmly.

"So are we all," Enjolras confirms, though it seems to go against half the things he's uttered tonight, alone. "But only the true fool does not learn anything."

He steps in front of Grantaire, then holds out his hand. Grantaire can only stare at it, at the offering that is more than he has ever dared to actually hope. Even absinthe has not emboldened his fantasies to this degree. It is foolish to hope for a kind word, let alone this. And yet he reaches out, lets the proffered hand clasp his, and lets himself be hauled up off the wet ground.

"And do you think I am capable of learning?" he asks, once upright, smiling bitterly.

Enjolras regards him seriously, silently, for a long moment. The rain is starting to pick up, and his golden locks are darker, sticking to his forehead and taking away his usual angelic appearance, lending instead a perplexed, naive innocence to his youthful countenance. "I do not think there is one of us who is not. I think you are. As am I."

Grantaire opens his mouth to make some jest, some bitter comment designed to push another of those spots he knows are most reactive in the man before him. But before he can, there is a press of lips against his own. It's very soft, and awkward and unsure--whether due to inexperience or hesitancy over the action is anyone's guess. But it does not relent immediately, does not halt with a panicked gasp or irritated noise. It presses on, yielding only beneath Grantaire's returning kiss.

"I do not wish to find myself a fool," Enjolras breathes softly a moment later, his lips brushing the spot just behind Grantaire's ear. "I can learn--can see where I have been blind before."

Grantaire, for once, has no verbal retort at the ready.


End file.
